


future made of sand

by breadpoetsociety (orphan_account)



Series: storms of september [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hospitals, Keith is doing his best, M/M, Police, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Shiro is a good big brother figure, Suicide Attempt, lance is hurting, love can't fix everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 17:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10392132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/breadpoetsociety
Summary: Keith sits on the edge of Lance’s bed, identical to his– except, blue plaid. There’s crumbs on it. The window is closed. He thinks about asking Lance to come to his room, but instead just wraps around his curled form, spooning him through layers of hospital blanket, clutching him so tightly it almost hurts.“I promise I’ll help you, Lance,” hot wind blows through Lance’s hair, over his ear and the hills and valleys of his eyelids and cheekbones. “I want to help you, Lance, please let me help you.”And Lance says okay.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from skyhill’s “run with the hunted:” 
> 
> “This is only an illusion  
> A future made of sand  
> And you know that time spent wishing love  
> Is just more time wasted  
> And as long as I keep standing  
> I can look ahead.”
> 
> a big tw for direct reference to self-harm and a suicide attempt.

It was a little thing, right? And it shouldn’t have bothered him. Just the smallest, tiniest, littlest thing, and yet it still had him reaching for a bottle again.

It felt like he was always drunk.

And it was the smallest stupidest thing, Lance was saying to himself, less of a mutter and more of a breathy song. It shouldn’t have bothered him. He shouldn’t be breathing like an open-mouthed moron, eyes glassy and unfocused, hand shaking as it poured vodka down his worthless gullet–

“Get rekt, they said, get fucked, they said,” he laughed and his fingers trailed up his arm, tapping where the pulse was strongest at the junction of stuff wrist and white-knuckled hand, following the beat of his too strong heart. 

Well– he laughed too but god– it was the stupidest little thing, right? And it shouldn’t have hurt. Everyone else was laughing. Hunk, and Pidge, and Shiro, and Allura, and– Keith– 

So Lance decided it wouldn’t hurt. If he couldn’t find it funny, well, he at least wouldn’t feel it at all. He wouldn’t feel at all. Or, at least he’d try not to.

Cause god! He slammed the glass down on the counter and a little piece chipped off. One more thing he fucked up, one more thing to laugh at, so he laughed. God, it was the stupidest, littlest thing why did it hurt, why did it hurt?

And these whispers were getting louder and harder to ignore, even when Lance clutched at his head to try and block it all out. 

“Worthless,” he defined, whispering along, and the liquor still burns the back of his throat. “Worthless. Lacking any semblance– any ounce– any piece of worth.”

He didn’t want it to hurt he wanted to stop hurting he was ready to stop fucking hurting.

And, oh christ, he whispers and stands and his tears continue to silently fall. It’s all so clear now, the only way that can happen– Well doesn’t that sound contrived and stupid, but he’s drunk, right? He’s not thinking that deeply about it.

So Lance fights his way through every drawer in their cheap ass apartment and he’s thinking to himself, aloud, reverently and like a prayer: what can I use?

This cord is too thin, and this necklace is gorgeous, weren’t we supposed to gift that to someone? And Keith was looking for those glasses– it felt like his search was on constant pause to appreciate the reminders of friends, but at least his hands aren’t shaking anymore. 

None of the lights are on so Lance can’t appreciate the glint of the scissors. Keith doesn’t keep knives out anymore. 

(Smart man.)

And now it’s back even further into the darkness, into the familiar confines of his bedroom, the hell on earth that’s just a little bit less hellish. 

And tonight he aims for the usual suspects, left forearm and the right thigh and then he starts to get a little creative because he made the mistake of looking in his mirror, and his eyes weren’t swimming with enough tears to totally block his vision.

He starts exploring the expanse of brown in front of him, cut only by those stupid blue shorts and that horrid grey shirt, stained with mustard and sweat and tears and yet those are nothing compared to the stains of freckles that trail up his thighs or the ugly red gashes he’s leaving everywhere or the tired eyes or the disgusting skin of his face or the greasy hair.

He sees it all and he hates it all but there’s always more to hate and this hate doesn’t even come close to the hate of what’s under that skin, and he doesn’t even want to think about it, and he doesn’t want to think anymore, so he gently draws a thin red line with scissors over his bobblehead thin neck and leaves a good mark to trace over again and again. 

And he can’t seem to draw blood so he gets desperate and searches again, settling for a large red Crayola marker from the time Keith decided to brand everything he owned with a big red “K,” and Lance decides it’s a great tool to at least emulate his desires, so he starts messily scribbling over the usual suspects, left forearm and the right thigh, and he gets a little creative with this throat and tries to create what he wants to see and it all stings and it all burns and he can see the spots on his shirt where tears are falling but he’s pretending it’s blood.

Keith’s scream barely registers, but the warm hands on his tense shoulders do.

But the comfort of Keith’s calloused hands leave him quickly, too quickly, and instead they’re shakily dialing someone and he’s crying too, and he hears one more scream and a distant siren, and a yell and the click clack of handcuffs. And Lance wakes up from the dream long long enough to try to break from the cool metal on his wrists. His tears clear enough for him to see Keith shaking, and when he tries to follow, Lance finally finds his voice again and, seething, hisses at him to stay.  

And god, he’s angry. He’s so angry his vision is swimming. He’s trying to pay attention to what the officer is telling him but the cuffs on his wrist are so distracting– god, and he hates how they make sense.

He’s a danger to himself, he agrees, when the officer asks. Lance almost has to laugh. That answer is obvious, sir, he says, as is the answer to the next question because I’m never a danger to others, not even to Keith. Because even as angry as I am at Keith, I love Keith.

And the officer nods and his eyes are soft and understanding in a mockery of Keith’s own compassion, and Lance wishes he was sitting back with him so that he could rest his head on the soft hair smelling like coffee and sweat and Febreeze. 

And even Shiro– when did Shiro arrive? has that same parodying look of understanding, but he holds Lance’s hand and helps remind him how to breathe until he’s told it’s time for him to leave by the resident psychiatrist. 

And talk about a guy who doesn’t want to fucking be there at 3am. 

“Me neither, buddy,” Lance says, but the doctor doesn’t seem to get the joke. So he moves on and answers the dry questions about moods and thoughts.

And his tone was professional but man, Lance could tell he wanted to be anywhere but talking to a drunk depressed person about how they’re depressed, way more than depressed, and how they need to talk to someone and did you know about our campus counseling services? Only $20 for a half hour session and they can’t prescribe you shit. 

They’ll tell you all about how you’re probably really sad because you don’t get enough sunlight, and Lance just says his mom tells him that enough, and the doctor just sighs and says all right, you’re free to go. Just like that? Just like that. 

At least they let him keep the blanket from the gurney, and Lance has it wrapped around him as though it would help him disappear. Its beige blends into the walls, certainly, but Shiro still sees him and gently leads him to his car, hazards flashing in the loading zone.

“It’s sunrise,” Lance notices, and he notices that the handcuffs were off now too. He’s sobering up, slowly, surely, painfully.

“My favorite time of day,” Shiro says simply, and Lance nods along, shaking his tender brain a little too much, and luckily Shiro is the smartest man alive because he immediately pulls the car over and Lance jumps out to vomit into bushes. He tries to ignore how mortified he is, but it’s difficult when Shiro rubs a heavy hand on his back.

“It’s mine too,” Lance whispers with a barely-there voice after wiping his mouth with his sleeve and stepping back into the car. Shiro gives him a sincere smile and one last clap on the back and it’s a long, silent drive back to his apartment.

“Don’t be angry at him,” Shiro says gently, and he helps Lance out of the car and wraps the blanket a little tighter around his lanky friend.

“I’m not,” Lance says, and it’s true, but it doesn’t stop him from avoiding Keith’s eyes and running past the couch that he’s nervously sitting on. The television isn’t even on, the apartment is silent and it’s suffocating, so Lance dives back into the safety of his bedroom almost shatters on his icy bed.

Lance can barely hear through his exhaustion, through his dead brain and through his thick wooden door, but Shiro’s voice echoes and Keith is loud. Shiro has a stuffy nose. Lance can tell Keith has been crying. 

“He trusts you over me.”

“That is in no way true.”

“I-I didn’t know what to do–”

“You did the right thing.”

“Shiro, I’m scared.”

And here is a hug so tight and forceful and warm that Lance can hear it, too.

“I am too.”

And, well. Fuck. We’re right back where we started, right? Whispering to himself, alone, in pain. Lance squeezes his eyes shut and wills it all to go away, cause if he’s worrying so many people– if he’s annoying so many people, and agonizing the people he cares about and the person he loves, wouldn’t it be better to just–

And it was that thought process that got him here, in the first place, right?

He doesn’t have the energy to throw the hospital blanket off, even though the pale rough weave makes his skin crawl with unease and his stomach turn with dread. The paper bracelet on his wrist itches more than the cuts.

It feels like days later when he hears another noise, a knock on wood and the creak of an unoiled door. Keith lets himself into Lance’s messy room, and Lance keeps his eyes shut.

Keith sits on the edge of Lance’s bed, identical to his– except, blue plaid. There’s crumbs on it. The window is closed. He thinks about asking Lance to come to his room, but instead just wraps around his curled form, spooning him through layers of hospital blanket, clutching him so tightly it almost hurts.

“I promise I’ll help you, Lance,” hot wind blows through Lance’s hair, over his ear and the hills and valleys of his eyelids and cheekbones. “I want to help you, Lance, please let me help you.”

And Lance says okay.

And Keith skillfully slips under the blankets, and he nuzzles into Lance’s neck, who doesn’t even have the energy to respond except to exhale fully for the first time in a long time. Keith is comforted by the pulse beating under his lips. He ignores the streaky thin lines, the residual red.

He loves him, of course, and when you’re in love you ignore the residual red.

And really, Lance thinks, the most tragic part of this is that no doctor, no Shiro, no police ride or cuffs can change his mind. He’s still so sad, tied to this earth, tethered only by Keith. After all, he’ll probably still kill himself someday. But for now he feels a little bit better. A little more optimistic. He breathes easier with Keith’s tight hold, embracing and cradling him into his broad chest.

And he falls asleep thinking of red. 

**Author's Note:**

> none of this is even in character anymore i just needed to write this.
> 
> come hang out with me on tumblr @ breadpoetsociety and twitter @ breadpoetsociet


End file.
